Bound in Love and Duty
by Redentor
Summary: The Big Sisters left behind after the events of Bioshock 2 are still bound in the endless cycle of mindless protective instinct forced on them by Sofia Lamb. Brigid Tenenbaum still struggles to undo what she did to them. One man, unaware of Rapture's dangers, is on a collision course with both.
1. Conflagration of Innocence

**Conflagration of Innocence**

A fireball blossomed up from the surface of the North Atlantic Ocean, framing the moons silvery glow with that of a merrily burning inferno. Gunshots and the sound of dying naval personnel carried across the once calm waters of that stretch of ocean, to echo on the walls of a lighthouse. It was an old structure, that looked for all the world like it had not seen use in decades. It had not...In fact the last man to use the inexplicable tower had made sure that no-one could use it ever again. Or so he thought.

A figure pulled himself up from the crashing waves and onto dry land, coughing and spluttering as his lungs rid themselves of the seawater that had managed to find its way into them. His hair, a dark brown, was cut in a fashion typical of US Military personnel. His eyes, green with flecks of brown present closer to the pupil, bore a haunted visage as if he had just seen a ghost. In truth he had seen something far worse. It was 1981, and Ronald Reagan had just been chosen as the new US President. The USSR was at America's throat, and the world waited in fear of an escalation to the conflict.

Francis "Paddy" Paddock, of the 1st Marine Combat Engineers had seen what he assumed to be the beginning of the end. The breakdown of negotiations, the start of the war between Russia and America. He lay face up on the cold stone of the slipway that led up to the lighthouse entrance and shivered uncontrollably. Images of nuclear weapons falling on his country flew through his mind, along with the screaming faces of his comrades aboard the ship that had now begun the process of sinking beneath the waves.

On any normal day his training would be telling him to get up immediately. To gather his strength and do something! It was a testament to his disciplined nature that he was capable of standing at all after the suddenness of the attack. A torpedo that had appeared seemingly out of nowhere and blew a hole in the bottom of the cruiser. It had to be Russian, who else could stand a chance at sneaking up on an American cruiser and blowing a chunk out of her hull?

Francis rolled onto his stomach and propped himself up to look around. A lighthouse so far out to sea? How...why? His clothing consisted of black combat boots, military cargo pants and a black BDU jacket over his black T-shirt. He wished bitterly that the issued uniforms could have been warmer, but that was the military for you. They gave you shitty uniforms and expected you to make good use of the pockets to warm your hands. A drop of salt water slid into his eye, and he rubbed at it for a second before he returned his gaze to the lighthouse.

Well, it was the only structure for miles around in the featureless ocean. It was the obvious choice for protection and shelter, so that was what he set himself on. He got up falteringly, weaving like a drunkard. Tottering slightly, he made his way forward.

0o0o0o0o0

The interior of the foreboding lighthouse was damp and murky, like the very air was swamp water, sickly and cloying. Francis, walking more steadily now, stopped in front of the Bathysphere. His first though way this could not be what it looked like. As a marine, he was trained to work closely with the US Navy, and as such he knew a submersible when he saw one. But it couldn't be, why would there be a submersible in some shitty lighthouse in the middle of the ocean? More importantly, where would it go if he hopped inside and started it up? He stood, mulling over the pros and cons of the two choices he had. Stay stranded in the lighthouse until either the Russians came with a clean-up crew to kill or capture any survivors, or Americans came to rescue him.

Alternatively he could go where the sub would take him, taking into account the possibility that this old hunk of junk could de-pressurise in the deeps and kill him just as surely as a Russian bullet or hypothermia from overexposure to the elements. If in fact this did lead anywhere. He took a step forward and spun the wheel that opened the spheres pressurised hatch. It was slightly rusty...he frowned. Maybe this contraption had indeed been used recently, or more recently than the state of the lighthouse would have led him to believe. All this way out at sea and it was only slightly rusty. That meant that someone had oiled this regularly at some point in the not so distant past.

He swung the door open, and as the hinges protested he took his first look at the interior. It chilled him to the bone, for no apparent reason. Maybe it was just the fact that he had no weapon if something went wrong, or maybe it was just the afterglow of the deep sense of despair he had experienced when he had seen his ship go down, but it gave him the willies. He dispelled the sense of impending doom by falling back on his training, as he done so many times before. He surveyed the interior of the Bathysphere with the practised eyes of a military combat engineer. He was trained to fix tanks, Light Armoured Vehicles and the like. This gismo was older than sin but he felt confident in his abilities to use it, even if it had been damaged in some way over the years.

With a sigh he made himself as comfortable as he could and started systematically examining the workings of the Bathysphere. He managed to remove some panels with his Swiss Army knife and had a peak inside, and began piercingly wishing that he had managed to save some of his gear before he abandoned ship. He missed the reassuring weight of an M16, the strain of a full pack on his shoulders. As those thoughts swirled through his brain, his questing gaze met something interesting. A section of piping that had been removed, forcefully by the look of it, with some sort of mechanical instrument, most likely a wrench. Whoever had been here last clearly wished the secrets of the submersible to remain secrets. "Well fuck me anyway," Paddy gripped purely to himself.

The sound of his voice echoed around the lighthouse, and Francis shuddered. He could handle fire-fights, he could handle explosions...hell he could even handle military cooking. What he didn't like was walking into the unknown like a fool. Well, it wasn't exactly like a fool, he was making this decision for all the right reasons. The Russians could begin sweeping the lighthouse any minute, searching for survivors. If he was found then he would remain as a prisoner of war, or worse they would just shot him straight up. "Fuck that anyway," he reiterated with a slightly different meaning in mind. Whatever he had to do, he would do to get this submersible working and below the waves before they got here.


	2. Tenenbaum

**Tenenbuam**

The repairs had been relatively straight forward. A patch made from scrap metal here, held together by strips cut off his jacket. He hoped it would hold, and he was pretty sure it could. All it did was feed fluid to some of the hydraulic systems, and it was not subjected to as much pressure as some of the other pipes. The strips of his jacket, once partially soaked in hydraulic fluid would be very difficult to break. He stood over the lever-like switch that dominated the Bathysphere, and briefly wondered if he should go through with this. Was the desire to hide underwater in this damn thing worth the risk, was it just a moment of madness that had compelled him to do it?

No, he decided. It wasn't madness, but neither was it just to hide from the Russians. He wanted to hide from the world for as long as he could. He wanted to hide from the nuclear war that he felt sure would be breaking out all over the world. Francis knew the score, and he wasn't as blindly patriotic as the rest of his deceased companions. What could a combat engineer do against a Russian Nuclear Warhead? All he could accomplish by returning to assist the war effort would be his death. He was a useless, outdated cog in the conflict he saw in his minds eye. This was his best option: lay low for a while, then find his way to a neutral country, somewhere with no extradition. Switzerland probably, that was in all likelihood the best choice.

He reached forward and slammed the lever into the forward position. With a creak the pressurised hatch closed and he felt the jerk as the Bathysphere lurched into motion for the first time in god knew how many years. He could see out of the observation hatch built into the submersibles hatch, and judging from the sign that he way illuminated by the Bathyspheres glow, he had gone past 10 fathoms deep already. "Just how deep does this thing go," he wondered aloud, simply to calm himself down with the sound of a human voice. He was not typically the sort of man who spoke to himself.

Francis was about to press his nose up against the glass to get a better look outside when a panel slid out from under his feet. He swore and staggered back as a projector sprung from the roof of the Sphere and whirred to life. An automated sideshow, like something at an amusement park, or a tour car. Suddenly the projector sparked and died, catching Paddock by surprise. He had seen a picture of a man on the panel before it had given out. A finely dressed man, with oiled hair and a fancy 1950's style caption. "From the desk of Ryan."

"I am Andrew Ryan," a disembodied voice spoke from above, showing Francis that while the video projector had given out, the audio accompaniment had been made from sterner stuff. "...and I am here to ask you a question," it continued, "Is a man not entitled to the sweat of his brow?"

"'No,' Says the man in Washington, 'it belongs to the poor.'"

"'No,' Says the man in the Vatican, 'it belongs to God.'"

"'No,' Says the man in Moscow, 'it belongs to everyone.'"

Francis listened to the voice as his mind whirled, "I rejected those answers. Instead, I chose something different. I chose the impossible. I chose..."

The panel slid down, and Paddock's mouth fell open. His eyes widened, his breath caught in his chest. The combat engineer stared, enraptured.

"...Rapture."

"A city where the artist would not fear the censor,

where the scientist would not be bound by petty morality,

where the great would not be constrained by the small.

And with the sweat of your brow, Rapture can become your city, as well."

Paddock took a few staggered steps backwards and felt his back come in contact with the wall. He slid down it, staring at the sight before him. 'Rapture' was a ghost-town, composed of skyscrapers connected by glass corridors. Though it was truly a magnificent sight, the fact that most of the cities infrastructure was damaged almost beyond repair, and only small sections of the city were lighted. Fish swam by in huge shoals, what little light there was coming from the city reflecting off their scales.

The beauty was lost on Paddock, who was struggling once again within the confines of his own mind. Why did he do this? Why was he so stupid as to do this? Of course, because he was afraid. Now he was fucking terrified. He was so fucked. Panic settled in on him, a pressure in his chest and head that made him cradle his head. Who was he to be so arrogant, to be so compulsive? A twenty-two year old man from San Diego, California. An AWOL marine with no fucking brain. A...a marine.

Paddock let one of his hands drop, and ran the other over his short hair. That's what it came down to, didn't it? He was a United States Marine and even though he was wilfully abandoning his country in its hour of need, despite all the doubt that he held in his heart, he was a trained killer. This was what he was. Oorah. As the Bathysphere glided in to land, Francis did what only a soldier could do in situations like this. He put his emotions aside, like a climber discarding gear on the final trek down the mountainside. If he had possessed a gun he would have racked the bolt, chambering a round. Game face.

He watched as the Sphere threaded the needle perfectly, passing through a series of hoops that sported rails. It latched on, using the rails to guide itself into the docking port. Francis stepped forward quickly and off to the side. When the hatch opened he didn't want to be framed in the doorway. If someone was waiting for him on the other side of this ride then he would dray them into close quarters, where his lack of weaponry would not be a hindrance.

The Bathysphere jolted to a halt and the docking clamps engaged with a series of clacks. Paddock peaked out of the glass, taking in what he saw. Admittedly, what he saw was not much. A small semi-circle of dirty carpeting was lit up by the Bathyspheres glow, just as it had done earlier. There were what seemed to be benches situated in alcoves for new arrivals. Those looked moveable. Movable cover from weapons-fire if he so required. The lighting was out, and he could see no movement in the shadows. But that was not an indication of safety. When you stood in the light and peered into the darkness you would never see anything amiss. If there was something hunting you from the shadows you had to go in after it if you wanted to fight on your own terms.

He switched sides and spun the wheel to open the hatch. Once again it groaned silently with age, but even that small sound translated to a cannon shot in the insipid darkness. He crouched low once again, bracing himself for a sudden attack. None came, and he took that as a good sign or an extremely bad one. It either meant that there was nothing out there, or that whatever was out there was smart enough to know the intruder had to come to it sooner or later. Francis steeled himself, then stuck his head out into the open, quickly withdrawing it. No gunshot.

Here goes, he groaned internally. He stepped out into the open, muscles tensed. Nothing sprung at him, so he took another step out into the open. Still nothing, so he took another step. "Hallo?"

He jumped forwards and did a roll at the sound of a voice, from behind him of all places. As he came up, his hand came down to steady himself. He felt something...something crumbly. Like rotten wood, only not so damp. But his attention was elsewhere, so he forgot about it immediately. He had his fist clenched and drawn back, ready to strike. "Hallo, can you hear me? My name is Brigid Tenenbaum. If you can hear me, please pick up the radio."

German by the sounds of it, Francis thought, female too. He drew himself back up and walked aft to the Bathysphere. The radio was held in a small metal slot on the wall, which he checked for anything else that might prove useful before he gave his full attention to the communication device. "Hallo, is anyvon there?"

He pressed what he assumed to be the transmit button and brought it up to his mouth. "This is Corporal Francis Paddock, United States Marine Corps. Send your traffic, over."

He fell back into a radio operators lingo, knowing that the simple familiarity of the action would calm his racing heart. The radio immediately came to life at his words, and the voice responding with obvious distrust. "United States Marine corps? Vhat are you doing here?"

He waited for a second, making sure she was done with her transition before he pressed transmit and replied. "Ma'am, when you are done transmitting, please say over so I don't cut you off mid-speech. As for your question..." He pondered that for a second, "I don't rightly know. What exactly is this place, over?"

Francis was still peering into the shadows, paranoid that something would creep out of the darkness and gut him. He needed to find some sort of weapon; anything that would protect him from possible threats. "Corporal, you have no idea how much danger you are in. If you know vhat is good for you, you will get back into the Bathysphere und return to the surface, over."

Francis snorted, creeping out of the Bathysphere and into the darkness. He hunkered down, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the lower visibility. "I don't think so Ma'am, whatever is going on here is a much better alternative to what's going on topside. But if you can please enlighten me to just what the fuck is going on down here then I'd be very grateful. What is this place, over?"

Vague shapes where just visible to his squinting gaze. He shuffled forwards and stared at the hallway. It was littered with bones. Skeletons of all shapes and sizes, wrapped in what remained of the clothing the dead had worn before their end. Francis surveyed the boneyard, keeping a tight reign on his emotions. Spikes of nausea made it past though, and he took a deep breath to steady himself. "What the fuck..."

"Corporal, there ist no time for questions. If you are intent on suicide then by all means, stay. If you vish to live, then leave..." A note of hesitation crept into her voice, but vanished as soon as it came. "...if you vish to stay, but are still somevhat attached to life, find something to defend yourself vith, und a torch."

He waited for a second, as the sound of tapping came from the other side of the radio link. "Und Herr Paddock, velcome to Rapture. Pray that it vill not be the end of you, out."

**A/N:** First and foremost this is not Redentor Publications main project. It's just something that I'm working on to focus myself for work on Mass Murder, our Mass Effect fiction. I will say however, that since this story requires less effort, and I'm basically shitting out chapters as I go along, this will be updated much more regularly. This wont be a very long fiction either, just something to get me in the mood to write. Don't expect it to be without errors either. I'm working on Apache Open Office, not Microsoft Word. I'm also not that familiar with Bioshock as a franchise either. I only started watching a few YouTube videos of it last week. That said, I still hope you enjoy it and have a very nice day.

Side Note: Check out our page, and read some of our other stories. Click favourite and follow if you feel the inclination to do so, and watch out for new chapters on all of our projects.


	3. Graveyard Shift

**Graveyard Shift **

Paddock glared at the radio some ten minutes after Mrs Tenenbaum had ceased transmitting. He had searched the surrounding area, and committed it to memory so he wouldn't be stumbling blindly in the dark. Once out of the Bathysphere the hallway opened up into something similar to an arrivals lounge, rectangular in nature. Bones littered the carpet there as thickly as they did in the hallway where he had enjoyed his first conversation with an inhabitant of this strange city. The arrivals lounge was occupied by benches lined up against the walls, and in the very middle, around a table that spanned the length of the room.

There were two other connecting rooms, one that was quite clearly for maintenance; the other Paddock had yet to get open. It was behind a bar that must have served the new arrivals with drinks and other refreshments while they waited for security to let them into the main city. From its location and solid airtight frame, Francis guessed it to be some sort of walk in freezer. He had scavenged a screwdriver, a claw-hammer and a wrench from the maintenance room after kicking in the door. It had once been solid oak, but after so much time exposed to damp air without a new coating of varnish, the rot had finally won out.

He felt decidedly better now he was in possession of some sturdy tools. In a pinch they could be very effective in close quarters, but the psychological benefit was what truly made the difference to Paddock. Tools were his life; a combat engineer without his tools was just another grunt, just a sub-standard marine. Or at least that was how Francis felt, and he hated to feel useless. He also snaffled a head-torch that he fastened onto his forehead, comfortable with the knowledge he had a light source if he so desired to use it. He didn't have to yet, as his eyes where getting used to the gloom.

He scanned the room once again, noting several air vents, one in the roof above the long table, and another over the bar. He turned his attention lastly to the guard post, right next to the immense metal door that was his entrance into Rapture. It was a small cubical, of no real importance, but Paddock felt compelled to search it. He tried the handle, but it was locked. Taking a step back he considered his options. There was an easy way to deal with this, or a very easy way. "Easy way it is," Paddock muttered.

Retrieving the screwdriver from his jacket pocket, he loosened all four screws that held the handle in place, then stood up. Rocking backwards on his left leg, he delivered a kick to the door. With a crunch and a splintering of rotten wood, the cubical door gave way. The handle mechanisms hung uselessly from the shattered frame, and Paddock smiled. A chain is only as strong as its weakest link, and if no links are weak, then you have to weaken them yourself. "Hallo, Herr Paddock? Are you there?"

Francis frowned and glanced at his radio. It lay on the long table, and he was sure that the voice of his invisible companion had not come from there. "Tenenbaum? Where are you?"

"I am using the PA system Herr Paddock, direct your gaze upwards."

Paddock did so, and could just make out a small red light near the roof. He squinted...it was a security camera. "So you can see me? When exactly am I gonna get to see you?"

"Herr Paddock, I still maintain my earlier sentiment. It vould be much safer for you to return to the surface. You have no idea vhat sort of danger lurks in the shadows, amidst this dying cities valls."

Paddock actually grinned at that, looking up at the camera like it was a pretty balloon. "Ma'am, I can tell you right now without a shadow of a doubt, whatever I find down here is a vacation compared to what's going on up there."

"Und I do not believe you Herr Paddock, but if you are set upon staying then you need to understand one simple concept. Everything that moves in Rapture vill most likely try und kill you, given the opportunity. You need friends, und I am prepared to offer my help in return for yours."

Paddock blinked in surprise, then shrugged. "Well, I had the same crazy idea when I heard your voice Ma'am. Maybe, if we work together then we really can both get what we want. So what exactly is on your to-do list that you want me to help with?"

"There are people in the city. People that I owe a debt to. You vill help me to help them."

"How?" Francis queried.

"By doing vhat you were trained to do Herr Paddock. You are a fighting man, a soldier."

"I may be a soldier Ma'am, but I ain't no one man army. I came down here to keep myself from getting killed, not to get involved in someone else's fight."

Tenenbaum sighed through the PA, and Francis imagined he heard the sound of her rubbing her forehead in frustration. "I am sorry to hear that Herr Paddock. I cannot help you, if you do not help me. Vhat is that expression you Americans have? "Scratch my back, and I vill scratch yours?" Vould you promise me at the very least, consider my offer?"

He smiled up at the camera, relieved that there was no apparent ill will between him and his new friend. "Yeah, I guess I can do that much Ma'am. Until then, I'll just be on my way."

Trying to think of anything else that needed to be said, he picked up the radio and waved it at the camera. "If you need me, you know where to contact me."

He turned back to the security booth and peered inside cautiously. The glint of metal caught his eye, and he reached out reverently. It was a metal box, stencilled quite clearly in red, with the word "Emergency". Once opened, it proved to contain a .45 semi automatic. At first glance he would have pegged it as a Browning High-Power, but at a second he realised it was more akin to the M1911A1 Colt. "I'm not sure if I'm the luckiest son of a bitch in the world, or the dumbest."

He grinned at his own witticism, checking the camber of his new weapon. Yes. It was indeed a .45, and a sturdy one at that. He wasn't sure if it was the box that had kept this gun in such good condition, or whether it was the materials it was constructed of. As an engineer he was inclined to go with the later. Tucking the pistol into his waistband, he exited the cubical and with no small amount of anxiety, approached the metal door that led into Rapture. It was a gaudy door, embossed with stylish designs that he supposed were there to make a good first impression upon new arrivals. Gold filigree he thought enviously, running his hand over its surface. Once he had finished in the marines he had aspirations to become an architect, and the sight of this city had reawakened that desire once more.

What a marvel of modern engineering this must have been in its day. Why would anyone have wanted to keep this place secret from the world. It was the most wonderful thing he had ever laid eyes upon. Reverently, he tapped the button at the side of the door and watched as it slid up into its slot. Immediately his hand went into the waistband of his pants, and grasped the butt of his pistol. Skeletons...many more than there had been in the entrance hall. Bones almost hid the carpet from view, obscuring the red carpeting with the white and yellow. Some of these remains were older than sin, others were newer.

Paddock reached upwards with trembling fingers and switched on the head-torch, letting its white beam illuminate the path forwards. The once grand entrance hall to this awe-inspiring underwater city was now the passageway of a crypt. The remains of the cities previous occupants lay everywhere, propped up against walls, lying spread-eagled on the fading carpet, even draped over the ceramic pots placed at even intervals at the sides of the hallway. The flaking metallic green paint that coated the pots was as dispiriting as the brown masses that had once been lush ornamental bushes.

But what really drew Paddock's attention was the fresh cadaver in the centre of all the carnage. The blood that surrounded it was definitely not dry, and it was barely congealed. And there was so much of it as well, accompanied by a sickly scent that suggested that the digestive tract had taken a substantial hit, and the large intestine filled with almost digested waste had been burst or cut open. Paddock clamped a hand over his nose and tried to breath through his mouth, but the air caught in the back of his throat. His gag reflex kicked in, sending a spasm through his body.

His eyes never left the hallway however, and his gun-hand, though shaking somewhat was still pointed firmly forwards. Overcoming caution, Paddock walked forwards and examined the area around the body and further down the hall. The body was mutilated beyond recognition, giving no information besides the previous owners gender, male, and the apparent strength of whatever had killed him. Some of the wounds, although filled with congealing blood, were clearly identifiable as huge tearing slices made by some sort of cutting instrument. A machete maybe?

No, that would not fit at all Paddock decided upon a closer examination that almost had him loosing whatever food he had left in his stomach. A machete wouldn't have torn someone up quite like this. This was the work of something entirely different; if he was not very much mistaken in his assumption, whatever had killed this man had done so with a long claw of some description. Sweat started running down his spine at the thought of something so vicious, loose in this place along with him. Maybe it had been a mistake coming down here, maybe he should go back up and face the nuclear music. Maybe you should shut your fucking pie hole, he answered himself sternly. Now wasn't the time to be having doubts regarding his situation. Now was the time for action, for exploration.

Discovering this marvel of modern technology, down here for god knew how many years before he had chanced upon it. It struck a cord in him. He wanted to be the one to uncover its secrets, to show people the wonders of this underwater world. If the people still existed to show it too. Realising that he had been sidetracked by his own thoughts, Paddock returned to the present, glancing backwards in the direction of the Bathysphere. Turn back, or stay and possibly become the pioneer of the new world? Francis Paddock, billionaire explorer. And why not? A discovery like this could set him up for life. He could lead people underwater, away from the nuclear war on the surface, be hailed as a hero by the masses.

Francis grinned, the dream filled away in his mind for future reference. No, it was a nice thought, but completely impractical. Shaking his head, he canvassed the area further down the hallway, from which the dead man had ran. Whatever had chased him, it had been fast, and strong, confirming his earlier assessment gleaned from the corpse. It had left deep dents in both the metal floor and the remains of the dead as it ran. Whatever it was, it must have exceptionally strong bones and muscle for an impact hefty enough to put a dent in the metal plating. He followed the path of the dents, and was surprised to find that they veered of as they got closer to the victims body.

The impacts came to the metal wall, upon which a huge strip of metal had been torn up and backwards, like the lid of a baked beans can. The four semicircles that could be seen where the strip had been separated spoke volumes to the happenings that had transpired leading up towards the cadavers demise. They were finger-holes, from where the creature had dug its fingers into the metal and used its upper body strength to propel itself towards its pray. It had tried to strike the blow as it flew through the air towards him, but the quarry had ducked low as the solitary claw had whisked over his head. The deep gouge from the failed attack told Paddock the it had not hit, for there was not a single blood spatter to be found on the fore mentioned wall. As it was the man had stumbled, completely off balance before he had fallen to the ground in the spot where his body now lay.

Francis nodded as his brain took it the details. Sherlock Holmes he was not, but he could still make assumptions from the evidence presented to him. Speaking of details...he crouched low near the body, clamping his hand so hard over his nostrils he thought he would burst the skin. A dent in the floor, no, a pair of dents almost exactly like the ones he had seen and taken to be the impacts of the creatures running feet. These were slightly shallow in comparison. Francis felt his memory twig just slightly. Where had he seen dents like this before?

Boot camp, on the training course. Every time there had been a straight vertical jump, indentations just like these ones would form in the mud. Paddock looked up to confirm his theory, and felt blood run cold in his veins. There was a vent straight above him, just as he had suspected. The grating had been torn off roughly, leaving jagged pieces of metal exposed, as well as the sizeable vent itself. Paddock had no idea why anyone would make a vent that large, big enough for four people to fit in. But that was only a passing thought in his mind, for a light was shining down upon him from the vents interior, a blood red light that set his teeth grinding and his heart beating like crazy. It grew brighter and brighter, like the source was moving steadily towards him.

So this is what impending doom really feels like?

"Herr Paddock, run!"

Tenenbaum's voice filled his ears all at once, with a startling clarity. It was like the starting gun on a race, list the chequered flag being brought down like an axe on kindling. In one smooth movement, Paddock was off. Down the hallway at a bullets pace, never once slowing even when he leapt over one of the many bodies that littered the hallway, soaring like a gazelle before his feet hit the ground once more. "The vent above die bar Herr Paddock, it ist to small for the creature to follow!"

Digesting this new information, Paddock skidded into the waiting area, the friction under foot from the carpet overcome, almost comically by his panicked burst of speed. Over to the bar he ran, vaulting up onto its surface as his sweat glands responded to his terrified mind. He fumbled with the screwdriver that he drew hurriedly from the confines of his jacket pocket, cursing wildly as the instrument almost left his grasp. "Hurry Herr Paddock!"

"What do you think I'm fucking doing?!" He hadn't even bothered to press the transmit button, just lashing out without thinking. He tried to unscrew the grating, but this proved to be futile. It was rusted so badly he wondered why it hadn't already fallen out of its own accord. Gripping his salvation in both hands, he jammed it into the gap between grating and ceiling, jerking it like a crowbar. There was a resounding crack and bang as the screws gave way and the grating hit the floor. His relief was promptly smashed as a titanic wave of sound echoed through the hallway towards him. It was the sound of a monster dropping down from vent above, and the thumps he literally felt through the shaking ground where the running footsteps of the hunter, come to take the prize.

Not daring to look back, Paddock pulled himself up into the vent and started climbing, hands and legs braced against the sides of the metal ventilation system. "Herr Paddock, once you reach the top you must keep moving. Stay avay from the larger vents, she vill chase you through them if you stray too far into them."

"And just where the fuck am I suppose to go?!" He had forgotten once again to press the transmit button, and his question met deaf ears. Realising this he braced his back against the side of the vent and looked down to retrieve the radio. He nearly jumped out of his skin. Below him, the red glow was reaching up towards him like the fires of hell had come to claim its latest victim. With a bone jolting thump, a large hand covered in metal came down upon the surface of the bar. Then the source of the red glow became apparent. A helmeted head come into view, like a immense red stop-light. Paddock gulped and decided the radio could go fuck itself. Turning his gaze back upwards, he climbed into the darkness as the red glow tried to follow him, and the screech of an animal loosing her prey echoed in his ears.

0o0o0o0o0

"So just what was that thing Ma'am, some sort of fucked up science experiment?"

The tone of recrimination was clear in his voice as Paddock settled into his little hidey hole. It was a strange little room, only reachable by crawling through a section of metal plating that had been torn apart by some idiot with a buzz saw. If the edges of the cut section were any sharper, he could have decapitated himself simply by looking up as he crawled through. Tenenbaum heard to inflections in his voice immediately, and scowled at the American, even though he was all the way on the other side of the city.

"Do not presume to utilise that tone vith me Herr Paddock, I varned you of the dangers of Rapture as soon as you arrived on the station, and you refused to listen. Vhat happens too you now as a result of your decision is not my problem. Unless that is..."

Paddock scowled as Tenenbaum left her sentence hanging, knowing full well what the mystery woman desired. "Yeah, yeah you want me to do your fucking jobs for you. Let me ask you one thing Mrs Tenenbaum, just what's in it for me apart from a quick death?"

"You could live for quite a vhile Herr Paddock, vith my help you could survive down in Rapture for years, maybe decades. Und it ist _Miss _Tenenbaum, I have never been married."

Paddock chuckled at the distinction, think that if it had been in any other setting, her tone of voice coupled with those words would have sounded like a come on. "Well, Miss Tenenbaum, what exactly do you need me to do?"


End file.
